


Nobody's Purrfect

by feroxargentea



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, and sometimes they're just cats, because sometimes cats are symbolical, cat!RayK, crackfic taken semi-seriously, due South Seekrit Santa Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-08 20:59:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12872895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feroxargentea/pseuds/feroxargentea
Summary: For reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, Ray Kowalski is part cat.





	Nobody's Purrfect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JackyMedan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackyMedan/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Cat!RayK Is A Thing Now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4059781) by [JackyMedan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackyMedan/pseuds/JackyMedan). 



> Written for JackyMedan for due South Seekrit Santa 2017, inspired by her [Cat!RayK post](https://jackymedan.tumblr.com/post/119398965296/no-but-i-now-really-have-a-need-for-catrayk) and [fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4059781).
> 
> Many thanks to verushka70 and cj2017 for beta.

* * *

 

It’s the milk that first tips Fraser off.

Oh, admittedly there have been a few previous incidents suggesting Ray Kowalski might be a bit . . . _eccentric_. Nothing major, to be sure, just occasional quirks that strike Fraser as . . . _not entirely average_. Things that are somewhat . . . _out of the ordinary_. (He might have said “queer”, but it’s been borne upon him during his sojourn in the States that in modern urban parlance the word has quite another meaning than the one he learnt from his grandparents’ books.)

It’s true that his grasp of the behavior to be expected in a typical thirty-something American male isn’t as reliable as it might be. Ray’s casual belligerence, his easy laugh, his frankly appalling diet, his jaw-dropping lack of basic civility when dealing with members of the general public, all of these are—as Fraser reminds himself on a daily basis—perfectly normal in a Chicago law enforcement officer, and any bewilderment they might evoke in him is just a sort of lingering culture shock.

But the milk incident is . . . well, it’s _bizarre,_ is what it is.

Because in the usual way of things, Ray treats Fraser’s beverage choices as undeniable proofs of insanity. “Jesus, Fraser, you can _not_ order bark tea in a bar!” he’ll yell, or maybe, “You did not just ask for hot chocolate, I did not just hear you ask for hot chocolate, I’m not even here, I don’t even know you, who _are_ you, you freak?” And he’ll drag Fraser into a booth, laughing and shaking his head as Fraser sips his drink.

But with the milk it’s different. Oh, he makes the same fuss, with all the same bluster. “They’re not gonna have milk here, Fraser!” he protests. “It’s a sports bar! They have beer and they have whiskey and they have, oh, hey, look, more beer!” But when Fraser explains that they do actually keep a stock of milk in this particular bar, because there’s a stray cat in the alleyway across the road of whom the barmaid is fond—Tabitha, in fact, a nervous little tabby who’s expecting kittens any day now—Ray says, “They do, huh?” and goes very quiet.

When the glass of milk turns up, tall and cold and beaded with condensation, Ray looks everywhere but at it, his gaze roaming restlessly from his own drink to the pool table in the corner or the flashing lights of the fruit machine or the guys pushing their way in and out of the men’s room beyond the bar. He cradles his pint glass loosely in one long-fingered hand and picks at his coaster with the other. From time to time he glances over at Fraser with a hungry sort of expression, and while that’s common enough for him (and probably not to be interpreted as queer in either sense of the word, which is another thing Fraser has to remind himself of on a daily basis), there’s a nervousness and intensity to it that wasn’t there before.

“Is something wrong?” Fraser asks, the fifth time he catches Ray staring at him.

“Nah, you just . . . ” Ray says, and brushes a hand over his upper lip. Fraser automatically touches his own and finds it damp with milk.

“Ah,” he says, and dabs it clean with a paper napkin.

Ray relaxes then, loosening up bit by bit until he’s expounding on their latest caseload in his usual freewheeling fashion. (This of course entails a level of profanity and verbal abuse that would have astounded Fraser prior to his American assignment, but he’s aware by now that allowances must be made). All is going fine, until the barmaid brings Ray’s order of French fries and accidentally jostles Fraser’s glass with the bottle of ketchup. Luckily the glass is almost empty, though, and only a few drops spill out as it falls.

“Whoops, sorry!” she says, grabbing it and heading back to the bar.

“Oh, not at all,” Fraser calls after her. “No harm done, thank you kindly!” He passes the ketchup to Ray and helps himself to a handful of fries. “So, Ray, you were telling me about the doorman’s statement in the Coleman case?”

“Yeah,” Ray says. “Yeah, the stupid asshole was trying to claim he saw the, uh . . . ” He trails off, his gaze fixed on the tiny puddle of milk between them on the table. “Uh, the, uh . . . ” he tries again, inching closer to the table’s surface.

Fraser stares at him, mesmerized, as he leans forward and licks his lips. The tip of his tongue is still poking out, damp and pink, as he dips his head towards the milk. Closer, closer, until he’s three inches away, two inches—

—and Huey and Dewey burst through the bar doors, laughing and punching each other in the shoulder.

“Ray, my man!” Huey yells, and Ray slams upright in his seat, his eyes wide. For a split second he stares at Fraser. Then he wipes the puddle into oblivion with one hand and waves Huey over with the other, as if everything is completely normal.

It _isn’t,_ though. Fraser’s perceptions may not always be reliable, but he’s _sure_ this isn’t normal. It’s _bizarre,_ is what it is. Because Ray isn’t the one here who licks things. Is he?

**+++++**

There are other odd traits that Fraser notices and stores away to ponder later, in the long watches of his sentry duty or when he’s lying awake in his cubbyhole at the consulate, when he can at last permit his sleepy thoughts to coalesce around the man who fills all his waking hours. Small things—irrelevant things, in all likelihood—but now that he’s begun to notice them, he can’t stop.

There is, for instance, the way Ray will sometimes halt mid-sentence and crane his neck to watch a moving target: a random stranger on the sidewalk, perhaps, or a bird flying past the window. Observant, yes, and that’s a valuable quality in a detective, but the suddenness and ferocity of it is more than a little unnerving.

Then there’s the way he hates getting wet, hates it to the point that if it starts raining he’ll stick his notebook back in his pocket and stalk away from whomever he’s interviewing, forcing them to trail after him to the nearest shelter. And it might just be because the water ruins his hair, flattening his careful spikes into a soggy mess, but Fraser isn’t sure that that amount of vanity is entirely typical of Chicago cops. Nor, he suspects, is Ray’s habit of peering into the mirror, licking the back of his hand, and smoothing the errant tufts back into place behind his ear with a casual swipe. Practical, it’s true, but disconcerting nonetheless in its feline grace.

Some of these eccentricities are rather endearing, of course. Charming, even. (“Adorable”, Fraser’s inner voice tells him, and he shushes it quickly.) The way, for instance, that Ray seeks out physical contact without the slightest convincing pretext. He doesn’t _need_ to sit right up against Fraser on the bench outside the courthouse while they wait to be called in. There’s plenty of space for three or four people there. And the couch in his apartment isn’t _that_ small. They could sit at opposite ends and not touch at all, if Ray didn’t sprawl so, twisting his legs sideways and wedging his feet against Fraser’s thighs. It’s _companionable,_ to be sure, and he probably means nothing more by it than simple fraternal affection, the same affection that prompts him so often to sling an arm round Fraser or duck his head to rub Fraser’s shoulder in passing, if no one is looking. And if that last habit happens to remind Fraser of a cat greeting its owner, well, that could just be another of those cross-cultural misapprehensions to which he’s so prone.

He doesn’t have time to worry about it right now, anyway. He’s neck-deep in cases and busy running after Ray (often literally) as he tries to keep them both out of harm’s way. Already this morning he’s had to apologize to three sunbathers, two aggrieved gardeners and a koi carp fancier after Ray’s furious chase of a purse-snatcher took him across half a dozen back yards, over a patio, through a hedge and along the top of a six-foot fence, ending with the inevitable headfirst tumble into a garden pond. Luckily it wasn’t deep and Ray managed to flounder his way out of it unhurt, clutching the thief by one ear, and it’s just about possible that he had indeed, as he insisted, “meant to do that”, but still, it took Fraser a considerable effort to keep the straight face that Ray’s fragile dignity required.

Now, two hours and half a tube of hair gel later, Ray is looking a bit less bedraggled, but he’s already back in trouble. A misunderstanding about the Conrad’s Quality Poultry case is looking set to end in actual fisticuffs if Fraser doesn’t intervene soon. It’s Fraser’s own fault, unfortunately; he ought to have anticipated that Lieutenant Welsh might take the phrase “wild goose chase” in its less than literal sense.

“Exotic meat!” Ray is yelling at Welsh. He’s almost spitting with rage, and if he had claws they’d be out. “I _said_ exotic meat and, and, and feathers or whatever the hell they were selling under the counter. Eagle gallbladders or some shit. Tell him, Fraser!”

“Er, yes, dried and powdered body parts from various endangered avian species, for so-called holistic medicine,” Fraser confirms. “We’ve discovered information that links Conrad’s Quality Poultry to thefts from half a dozen zoos and rare bird collections so far, sir, and I believe Ray is correct in his intimation that there are sufficient leads to justify keeping the case open for at least a few days longer.”

Lieutenant Welsh glares at him. “You were the one who told me it was a dud! A paltry case! You stood right there and told me that, just yesterday!”

Fraser clears his throat. “Yes, well, I can only apologize. While Canadian and American accents aren’t wildly dissimilar, I can see how the vowel sounds might be confused in this particular instance. We’ll go and resume the investigation right away, shall we, sir?”

He grabs Ray by the elbows and maneuvers him out of Welsh’s office before the lieutenant can tear another strip off him. Whatever else Ray might or might not be, he’s a born magnet for trouble.

**+++++**

Diefenbaker is no help. Fraser tries to talk the matter over with him, but he merely pretends he can’t lip-read, no habla Inuktitut, Ray who? Dogs and cats might be natural enemies, but greedy half-wolves and suspiciously feline detectives who come equipped with snack foods and opposable thumbs are friends for life.

(Half the time Fraser suspects they’re actually tag-teaming him. Dief will distract him with barks or whines or a sudden sharp interest in clues that turn out not to be clues, and when Fraser turns back to the table there’ll be a dozen fewer fries round his burger or a slightly smaller stack of bacon on his toast, and Ray will be looking the other way, sipping his coffee in wide-eyed innocence. Try as he might, Fraser can never catch him at it.)

In the end Fraser resorts to trickery. It’s a little underhand, admittedly, and might be considered less than honorable, but he’s beginning to realize that he’s in this for the long haul, that he couldn’t leave even if he wanted to; and if he’s going to turn down transfers and promotions for Ray’s sake (which apparently he is) then he has to be sure what sort of person he’s taking on. He _has_ to.

He waits until they have a quiet evening at last, the squad room’s doors creaking shut behind the last of the day shift, leaving him alone with Ray and their heap of unfinished paperwork. Then he unties his lanyard, lays it across the desk under Ray’s startled gaze, and begins to tug it back towards himself.

Ray stares at it, then at him, then back at the lanyard, until Fraser has gathered almost all of it up and there’s only a tiny piece still twitching across the paperwork. Ray licks his lips, and Fraser keeps pulling. When a single inch is left, Ray makes a grab for it, catching the tip and yanking so hard that Fraser almost unbalances.

They glare at each other across the desk, their hands joined by half a yard of white cord. Then Ray lets go as if scalded.

“No fair,” he says, and stalks out, his shoulders hunched.

**+++++**

Myth and legend are teeming with half-human creatures, of course: demigods and shapeshifters and myriad other beings that sometimes appear in human form, sometimes not. Werewolves are the first that spring to mind (and Dief, lying nearby, interrupts Fraser’s thoughts at this point with a wolfish snort, before turning round and going back to sleep), but selkies, wendigos, vampires and kelpies prowl through the folklore of the northern continents, and those are just the start of a long, long list. Some of them are said to be benign, some vengeful, some crazed. None of them seem to Fraser to have the slightest bearing on the familiar figure now curled up beside him, watching the hockey through half-lidded eyes.

He reaches over to pet the gel-stiffened tufts of Ray’s hair, a gesture of affection he suspects isn’t usually permitted between what Ray would call buddies, however fond of each other they might be. He’s not sure what he’s done to deserve this much trust, but he’s more glad of it than he can say.

“Go to sleep, Ray,” he murmurs, although he knows there’s no point. As long as there’s a moving dot on the screen, Ray can’t stop watching it.

“Mmmm,” Ray says. “Feels nice.” He hums happily, the sound transmitted through his body like a purr. His toes clench and relax rhythmically against Fraser’s leg: he’s _kneading_.

Fraser watches the hockey puck skim and bounce across the ice and thinks about cat scratches, cat bites. Mythological beings might be out of place in modern-day Chicago, but stray pets and ferals are not. He and Ray have disturbed dozens of flea-bitten, rip-eared alley cats in the last year or two; it’s not improbable that some such creature has in the past drawn blood. Or perhaps it wasn’t a cat at all, perhaps it was an intermediary species, a carrier, spreading this strangeness as its ancestors once spread plague.

“Ray,” he says carefully, “tell me, why is it that you hate rats so much?”

Ray uncurls and looks at him narrowly. “I didn’t get bit, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“You didn’t?”

Ray sighs. Then he turns over and lies down again, his head resting on Fraser’s leg this time. “No,” he says. “Not by a rat, not by a cat. It isn’t like that.”

Fraser threads his hand back into Ray’s hair, stroking down to the warmth of his scalp. “Then tell me what it _is_ like. I want to understand.”

“It’s . . . you really wanna know?”

“Yes. Please trust me. Please, Ray.”

Ray is silent for a long time, his shoulders tense against Fraser’s side. Then he huffs out a breath, and his long, lean frame relaxes, uncoiling across Fraser’s lap.

“It’s not something you can _catch,_ ” he says quietly. “You can’t catch it, and you can’t get rid of it either, as far as I can tell, and believe me I’ve tried. You’re born like this or you’re not, that’s all. You can try forcing yourself to think the way everyone else thinks, and maybe for a while you’ll manage to act like you’re normal, everything’s fine, a hundred percent, but then a bird’ll fly past or some bastard will wave a piece of string at you . . . ”

Fraser winces. “Sorry about that, Ray.”

“S’okay, shit happens. My fault for not telling you. I wanted to, but . . . ” Ray spreads his hands in a fluid shrug that makes Fraser’s heart catch. “My mom knew about me from when I was a little kid, said it ran in the family but it skipped generations or something. Maybe some old Polish guy back in the shtetl did get bit, I dunno. Anyway, she guessed about me. Used to cry, sometimes. Said it would only make life harder for me, and I shouldn’t tell anyone, ever. Not _ever_.”

“So you didn’t?”

“So I didn’t. Not even you, Frase. Hell, what was I gonna say? I don’t even have a name for it.”

Fraser forces himself to keep his hands smoothing through Ray’s hair with the same gentle motion, but it’s an effort not to clench them into fists. He wants to grab Ray up, gather him in, hug him close. He can’t bear to think of him hoarding this innocuous little secret in shame, afraid to tell a soul. He can’t bear to think of him hurting so much for so long.

“You’re _Ray,_ ” he says fiercely. “Ray Kowalski. That’s the only name you need.”

Ray twists onto his back and stares up at him. “Ray Kowalski, half-cat freak,” he says, part question, part challenge.

Fraser gazes back into his wide gray eyes, entirely human, except where they’re not. Normality, he’s pretty sure, is overrated.

“Ray Kowalski, _my_ half-cat freak,” he says. “I don’t care what you are, Ray. I—I don’t care.”

Ray tilts his head. “You mean that?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. I think I do.”

Ray grins at him, a wide, Cheshire-cat grin.

“Prove it, then,” he says, and reaches up with one long, graceful arm and pulls Fraser down into a very human kiss.

 

 

 


End file.
